


Shadow of a Doubt

by Yavannie



Series: Intermissions [3]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexuality Spectrum, F/M, Figuring Sexuality Out, Fix-It, Friendship, Mild Sexual Content, Romance, Underage Drinking, post s01e08, shitty parents, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 03:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10562637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yavannie/pseuds/Yavannie
Summary: In-between episodes 08 and 09. When Archie wants his room to himself for the night, Betty invites Jughead over to the Pembrooke.Can be read as a standalone.





	1. Chapter 1

He's not sure whether it's just the fact that they've been sharing a room for two weeks, or if the half-truths and untold secrets that have muddied their friendship for the past six months are still taking their toll, but there's no mistaking it; there's a certain tension between them. It gnaws and chafes, creates an invisible barrier in the bedroom, and the barrier keeps expanding, filling the space up slowly, pushing them back until they’re cornered. Jughead on the very edge of his mattress with his nose right down in his laptop, armored in headphones and hat, and Archie nestled amongst the pillows, flipping through the chemistry book far too quickly to actually be reading it.

 

The silence grows until it threatens to suffocate, and it’s small wonder that when it’s broken by the sound of the front door slamming downstairs, they both crack at the same time.

 

“I thought–”

 

“Hey, you know what–”

 

He looks up at Archie, who for half a second almost smiles. “So, I talked to Val earlier about maybe hanging out here…” he says.

 

Jughead nods and closes his laptop. “I was thinking I’d eat at Pop’s anyway.” Archie shifts a little, so he adds, “I’ll stay out late, probably.”

 

“Cool. Do you need… anything?”

 

The pause is short, but it cuts through Jughead’s dignity like a hot chainsaw through butter. Normally he'd slap back with a comment about how yes _of course_ his staying with them is an elaborate ruse to bleed the Andrews dry, but lately he's been having trouble keeping up his usual glibness. “I've still got some cash from working the site,” he says. Mr. Andrews paid all of them, refusing to dock any from Jughead's share for letting him stay with them. He put some aside to stop the thought of accepting handouts grinding a hole in his conscience, but his other funds are running low. Still, there’s enough left to get a milkshake… Or two.

 

The moment he steps outside, he pulls his phone out. He actually tries pretty hard not to text her all the damn time, because he doesn’t want to come across as overbearing. Also, he’s not exactly a short message service connoisseur. With Betty, he tries to gauge her mood, making sure to reply reasonably quickly, but for someone who can average 50 WPM when truly inspired, a text is a laborsome effort. He weighs each word, mostly to make sure that the painstaking process of weighing each word doesn’t show.

 

_6.36pm_

_So, Archie wants some “alone time” with Valerie. PT? Shakes on me._

He starts walking, but only to the end of the block. If she’s up for it, he might as well walk her there. The evening is chilly and he hasn’t got any gloves, so he shoves his hands in his pockets and waits for the buzz. As usual, it doesn’t take her long.

 

_6.48pm_

_Hey you :) Sorry, at Ronnie’s tonight :/ Maybe later? How long do you have to keep away?_

 

Jughead can feel his heart sink. He worries at his lip, hesitating, and the phone hums again.

 

_6.49pm_

_Actually, come to Ronnie's? :)_

 

It’s a weird mix of anxiety and relief. On the one hand, she's prepared to disregard the sanctity of a girls’ night in for his sake, and it makes him feel like a million dollars. On the other, it's _Veronica_ and the Pembrooke, and he remembers all too well what went down there only a few days ago. Then again, he reasons, Betty probably explained everything. At least he hopes so. “Ok :)” he types. Then he erases the smiley, because no matter how much he loves those little commas and slashes and Ps when Betty writes them, they look fake when he does it. “Ok.” _Well_. Now it sounds like he’s either 50 years old and inept at phones or pissed off. _Delete, delete, delete_.

 

_6.52pm_

_Mais oui, mademoiselle. See you there._

 

Smithers answers the door, and for a second, Jughead thinks he’s simply going to be turned away. The look he gets from the doorman is almost enough to make him pick himself up by the collar and walk himself round to the trash where he evidently belongs.

 

“Mr. Jones,” Smithers says instead, his jaw tightening ever so slightly as he steps aside to let him in.

 

Veronica is in the kitchen, phone in one hand and a takeout menu in the other. She waves it impatiently at a barstool, and as he settles, she mouths “I’m getting pizza”. Jughead can hear her launching into the order in the professional voice he likes to think of as ‘Young Miss Lodge’, and although his belly is making happy noises at the thought of food, he can’t focus on what she’s saying. He looks around, tries not to be too obvious about it, but with every passing minute the feeling of being the butt of some sadistic joke grows.

 

“Where’s Betty?” he asks as soon as Veronica clicks away the call.

 

“And a very good evening to you too, Fall Out Boy. She’s on her way.”

 

She says it like it’s completely normal, and yeah, ok, it _is_ completely normal. It’s just that if he’d known he would arrive earlier than Betty, he would happily have hung around the park like a creep for a few minutes to avoid this very situation.

 

“Moscato?” Veronica asks from the fridge, holding an expensive looking bottle of wine. When he shakes his head silently, she grabs a Coke from the well-stocked shelves and slides it across the table.

 

“Glass bottle,” he says, getting his keys out to crack it open. “You certainly spare no expense. Does your mom know you’re drinking?”

 

Veronica shrugs and sips her glass. “A certain amount of secrecy is healthy in a mother-daughter relationship.”

 

Jughead glances over to the far part of the living room where Smithers is taking an obscene amount of interest in a potted plant. “What about him?”

 

“Smithers is loyal to _all_ Lodges,” she says.

 

“Loyalty always follows a predetermined hierarchy.”

 

Veronica narrows her eyes. “It certainly does. How are things between you and Archie?”

 

He walked right into that one, didn't he? “Fine,” he says.

 

“I take it there was an apology. What did he say?”

 

She’s being far too frank for his liking, but he’s in her house and he probably deserves the thorough dragging that looms on the horizon. “Like I said, we’re cool. He just… He wished I’d been honest from the start, I guess.”

 

The look she gives him is incredulous. “Wait… How exactly is that an apology?”

 

“Well, _obviously_ I said I was sorry, but you asked–”

 

Veronica holds her hand up, interrupting him. “No. No, no, no. Are you telling me _you_ apologized to _him_?”

 

“Yeah, I mean–”

 

“After he stomped in here and made a scene? And for _what_? He wasn’t even right about those goons!”

 

The words snag on something inside Jughead, tearing open a wound he’s apparently been holding tightly sewn up for the past couple of days. To his absolute horror he can feel a sob lurching deep in his chest, so he coughs and then takes a swig of soda. “He was right about dad though.”

 

“And how exactly is that your fault?”

 

“I knew he was shady, Veronica.”

 

“So did Archie!” She’s flushed with anger now. “Jughead, you were _homeless_. You technically _are_ homeless. We _all_ know your dad is… A less than savory character, okay? It is _not_ your job to police your shitty father. They’re supposed to be _our_ parents, not the other way around!” Her eyes are glistening, her fist curled around the stem of her glass.

 

“But I protected him,” he says, taking the chance to really twist that knife he’s had planted in his gut for months now. “At first I just tried turning a blind eye, you know. And when that didn’t work, I moved out.” He holds her gaze, hoping desperately that she’ll understand. “When I heard that Jason had been shot, my first thought was _what if_. What if dad had something to do with it. And I did nothing. Said nothing.”

 

She walks around the table to his side, and seemingly on impulse reaches out for his hand. He’s not ready for it, and for the fraction of a second his entire being is screaming at him to bolt. This is some next level friendship shit and he is _not ready_ , but pulling away without seeming like a complete douche is impossible. Her hand is small, warm and firm. “Don’t think for a second that Archie wouldn’t have done the same for Mr. Andrews,” she says.

 

He can’t really argue with that, because she’s voicing the same thoughts he’s been harboring in some dark, deep place, and hearing someone else say it is such a relief. So he nods. “Thanks,” he says. She lets go of his hand, and for a glorious second or two he thinks they’re done being awkwardly emotional for this evening - only to realize she’s going in for a hug. “Let’s not,” he says firmly, leaning back a little.

 

“Miss Cooper is here,” Smithers announces, and right now, Jughead is one hundred percent cool with him hanging around like some chaperone and or relic from the turn of the century. The _other_ turn of the century.

 

Betty steps into the kitchen carrying four boxes of pizza. “I met the delivery guy,” she says, and when she hops onto the seat next to Jughead, he can almost hear the soft clicking of a missing jigsaw piece sliding into place.

 

He can _definitely_ hear the low growl coming from his belly, and he grabs the nearest box and flips it open... _Oh no. Dear god no._ He glares at Veronica over the cardboard. “Who the hell ordered pineapple?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleepover at the Pembrooke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the tags for this work have changed. I'm working on the premise that Jughead is on the asexuality spectrum while also more or less complying with canon. If you're uncomfortable seeing Jughead in this context, I would advise against reading.

The leftovers are long cold and going stale by the time his phone vibrates in his pocket.

 

_10.03pm_

_Val had a curfew. You still at Pop’s?_

 

“Is it Archie?” says Veronica, straightening up and looking at him expectantly.

 

Jughead sighs. “Veronica, there are exactly three people who text me on a regular basis. It’s past JB’s bedtime now, and Betty is in the room. I think you can safely assume it’s Archie.”

 

“What does he want?”

 

Betty leans over to look at the screen. “Looks like his date night came to a premature and rather unsatisfactory end.”

 

“Give me that,” says Veronica, reaching across the table quick as a flash to snatch the phone out of his hand.

 

“Hey!”

 

“Oh, shush. This opportunity is far too good to pass up.” Her thumbs are tapdancing expertly across the screen while a sly smile spreads across her face. “There. Let him mull over that one for a while.”

 

She slides the phone back. The latest outgoing message reads ‘Not coming home tonight, sleeping at Ronnie’s.’

 

He tuts. “So out of character. When have I ever called you Ronnie?”

 

“You’re welcome to start any time you like.”

 

The fine print is starting to sink in, and he glances over at Betty. “So… You’re staying here tonight?”

 

“I thought you said you picked him for his sharp wits, B,” quips Veronica.

 

Betty rolls her eyes. “That was the idea,” she answers him. “And now you are too, by the looks of it.”

 

“I guess I no longer have a say in the matter since _someone_ –” he stares at Veronica, “–is evidently in charge of both my phone _and_ my life now.”

 

“Yay, sleepover!” says Veronica, clapping her hands.

 

Jughead pushes his chair away from the table. He’s been doing some quick maths, and from what he can tell, girlfriend plus friend with spare room minus mother equals him and Betty most likely sharing a bed tonight. “In that case, I’m going to have to use your bathroom,” he says.

 

“Sure. You remember where–”

 

“And your shower. And a towel.”

 

* * *

 

Veronica’s bathroom is bigger than Archie's entire bedroom by far. There are alcoves in the gleaming, tiled walls where candles, possibly scented ones, are lined up just waiting to give a romantic backlighting to what he imagines are regular rose petal-strewn milk baths in the immense raised tub that sits in the middle of the room. There's a shelf filled with bath salts, various stoppered bottles, neatly folded towels and something that makes the word ‘loofah’ appear unbid in his mind.

 

Luckily, there's a regular shower as well, if by regular you mean standing in a veritable deluge; an entire part of the ceiling in one corner of the bathroom acts as a showerhead, and although he spends a good few minutes trying to work out just how much water he’s wasting, he can’t help but admit that he actually enjoys it. There are a number of bottles here too, and he picks one at random, lathering hair and body alike. Afterwards, he’s squeaky clean, smelling like a fine spring day.

 

He comes out of the bath to find the kitchen empty, pizza boxes and glasses still cluttering the table. The guest room where Polly stayed is his first guess, and it proves correct. His stuff is neatly stacked in an armchair and Betty is flopped across the double bed, but the moment he enters she bounces up and practically crashes into his arms.

 

“Mm, you smell good,” she says, face nestled against his neck.

 

“Lily of the valley, I think. And you…” he buries his nose in her hair, inhales her scent, and it’s clean and lovely and safe “...smell divine”. She looks up at him with a smile and gives him a chaste little kiss. Her lips linger, though, her breath a hot puff on his skin, and somewhere in amongst the usual smells there's an all too familiar hint of something that makes him pull back.

 

“Have you been drinking?” he asks.

 

Betty frowns. “I... we had one glass.”

 

“Okay.” His heart is pounding wildly. “Why?”

 

She disentangles herself from their embrace and shrugs. “Because I wanted to?” She sounds annoyed.

 

He doesn't know how to handle this; the irrational feeling of betrayal, the uncomfortable churning in his stomach. “Okay,” he says again. “Well, I _really_ don't like the taste, so…”

 

“I’ll go clean my teeth,” she says, abruptly turning and walking away.

 

The decision is a snap one. In a matter of seconds, he’s pulled on his beanie, pocketed his phone and shrugged into his jacket.

 

“What are you doing?” Betty's voice comes from behind him.

 

He freezes, inside and out. He doesn’t want to turn around, because he doesn’t have an answer to her question.

 

“Jughead?”

 

“I thought you went to brush your teeth.”

 

“So you’re what, running away?”

 

Slowly, he turns to face her. Her arms are crossed, hands right up in her armpits as though she’s cold. She looks sad. _Hurt_. She looks like she can’t believe what she’s seeing, and he wants to slap himself for making her feel like that. “No,” he says, contrary to evidence.

 

“Right.” She bounces on her heels a couple of times, then grabs her bag from the bed and heads off again.

 

Now he’s not sure she even wants him there anymore, but he takes off his hat and jacket and sits down on the bed. While he waits, he goes over what happened, tries to rationalize his actions to build a proper defense. It all boils down to the fact that he _hates_ that she had that glass of wine with Veronica. He didn’t think she was like that. And already, he has to check himself. _Like what? Like Veronica? Like practically every other sixteen year old girl ever?_ Even in his own head it sounds lame. _I thought you were different, Betty. Not like the other girls._ It sounds worse than lame; it sounds like a goddamn fedora-wearing redditor whose unwelcome advances have been turned down by their would-be manic pixie dream girlfriend.

 

Then he tries the moral approach. That fails even quicker. Underage drinking certainly isn’t good, or legal, but neither is petty theft, breaking and entering or obstruction of justice, and he’s been a party to all of those and more. He’s the self-confessed Troubled Teen of Riverdale High, and she… She is _Betty Cooper_.

 

So why do these whiny, puerile thoughts even exist in his head? Except, okay, Jughead kind of knows why.

 

“I freaked out,” he says as soon as she comes back. She stands in the doorway, looking warily at him, so he goes on. “I just... don’t like being around drunk people. Especially not people I care about. You can probably guess why.”

 

“Jughead, I’m not drunk.”

 

“I know.” Because he thinks he might freak out again if he doesn’t do it, he gets up and walks over to her. More than anything, he wants to hug her. He’s not sure she does, though, so he just stands there, hoping she’ll take the hint. “And even if you were,” he goes on “it’s my problem, not yours. But I… I can’t help it.”

 

She rocks from side to side, not meeting his eyes. “If I’d have known it would make you uncomfortable–”

 

“Betty, I don’t want you second guessing your behavior because of me–”

 

“Then why are you running away? Just _talk_ to me!” Her voice breaks a little, and with it, his heart.

 

“I know. _I know_. And I am, right?” He knows, and he is. _Right?_ He wonders if she really wants him to tell her exactly how difficult this is for him, talking about himself. When it’s about her, and her problems, it’s all crystal clear. She’s caught in the crossfire of a flame war stirred up by her family and the Blossoms, and she deserves none of it. If he can be anything even remotely resembling a rock in that shitstorm, he’s glad. More than that, he thrives off making her feel better, drinking in her happiness, basking in its radiance. When it’s about him though, the words won’t come. Opening up about even the most mundane topics feels like wading through half-set cement, and all the while, lurking at the edge of his thoughts is the gnawing suspicion that she’s one defining revelation away from realizing that he is in fact _Jughead_. As opposed to, say, Archie.

 

That revelation doesn’t come tonight, apparently, because before he knows it, they’re in the middle of their very first kiss and make up session. She tastes of toothpaste now, and the sheets are crisp and clean.

 

* * *

 

It’s well past midnight when they turn the lights off. He can still make out the shape of her, her hair reflecting the cold, blue light from the street lamp outside. His lips feel a little raw, because in between talking, they’ve been doing a substantial amount of kissing. Now they’re face to face, her unseen fingertips tracing lazy patterns on his arm. He feels content and wholly at ease, and while he drifts off towards sleep, he imagines what it would be like doing this every night, in a place of their own.

 

“Jughead?” Betty sounds wide awake, and he tries to shake off his own drowsiness and pay attention.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“What turns you on?”

 

The thought of sleep is suddenly light years away, probably hanging out with a good answer to her question in a galaxy far, far away. “You,” he blurts out, because it seems like the most reasonable, honest thing to say.

 

She gives a soft snort, and he’s both grateful and utterly in despair that the darkness hides their faces. “Okay… That’s a good start I guess. But… specifically, you know?”

 

“Are you sure you’re not drunk?” He’s just buying time now. He knows this, and even those dearly acquired seconds are not helping, because they're all spent in a state of mounting panic.

 

“ _Jughead_.”

 

 _Time to dive right in_. “Honestly? I don't know. Because I've never…” he lets the sentence linger, not sure where he's going with it.

 

“No. Neither have I.”

 

 _Right._ That's something to work with. At least he's not the only one without a clue. “So do you know..?”

 

“Specifically?”

 

This is getting so vague he’s not one hundred percent sure what they're talking about anymore, but there's no going back now. “Yeah.”

 

He can feel her finger tracing his bottom lip. Her hand is shaking a little. “I don't know either. But I know that I'm turned on right now,” she says, and Jughead can't remember ever feeling this happy or this terrified before in his life.

 

“Then we should do something about that,” he hears himself say with the complete confidence of someone happily ticking random boxes on a multiple choice test they absolutely didn't study for.

 

“I'm not sure I'm ready for… You know.” The words come quickly, and she suddenly sounds a lot more insecure.

 

Jughead props himself up on his elbow. From here, he can just about see her face. She's so beautiful, and her eyebrows are scrunched up in that worried way that makes his heart ache on a daily basis. “We don't have to do anything,” he says.

 

She nods. “I know. I'm just… I don't know what to do with myself. When we're like this - this close - it's like I'm going crazy. Like I need... _something_.” She throws a hand across her eyes. “God, it sounds so _crude_.”

 

“There's other things we can do, if you want to,” he says, gently prying her hand away. He's read enough books to know basically how pleasing a girl works, and that the key to it is between _her_ legs and not his. Weirdly, this doesn't feel as much like a minefield as he imagined it would. He rests his hand on her hip, suitably far away from the really risqué parts but in a way he hopes is intimate. “Okay?”

 

“Okay,” she whispers.

 

Because it seems like the natural thing to do, they kiss again, and he experimentally gives her hip a soft squeeze. That makes her lean into his touch a bit, so he marks it down as a successful move. She’s wearing pyjama-like shorts, and he lets his finger slide along the elastic, then teases it inside to make another sweep, this time over her skin. She seems to enjoy that, too, because she’s making an unfamiliar sound that’s definitely not one of dislike. They’ve stopped kissing, he notes, almost in passing. Their lips are still close enough to almost touch, and sharing her air is making him heady; it’s either that or his brain is approaching boiling point from trying to figure out if and how to move forward from here.

 

As always, it’s Betty who leads him by the hand on the right path - quite literally. She grabs his hand and guides it, gently but firmly, down. She’s wearing panties as well, and he touches her through the soft cotton, and she sighs.

 

They don’t speak, but she lets him know, her hand resting on his, her breathing changing and quickly becoming more erratic. It makes his heart flutter, a nervous excitement dancing around his inside his chest. At the same time, it’s almost frightening. He wants desperately to do well, to do this right, but part of him is holding up a big warning sign reminding him that if he does, then she’ll want this again. This, and more, and the more is something he’d rather not think about. As for _this_ … This is surprisingly fascinating.

 

He’s not sure how long it takes, because time seems to move differently in this bed, but when she suddenly tenses up against him with a gasp and pushes his hand away, he realizes the arm he’s been leaning on is aching. He sits up, but whatever pain he felt is quickly forgotten when he sees Betty. Outlined in silver, he can see her hand grasping the sheets tightly. Her chest is heaving, her eyes tightly shut as she arches her neck a little before slumping back down on the pillow. He’s not unaffected by it. It’s impossible to be unaffected by it, and a shudder of elation goes through him, knowing he made her feel like that. And maybe, knowing that she made him feel like this.

 

“Thank you,” she murmurs sleepily a little while later.

 

They’re curled up the way he likes best, his back resting against her warm shape, her arm slung across his chest. He thinks that probably, he should be the one to thank her. Right now, he’s too comfortable and drained to analyze all the things that passed between them tonight. There are some things there that still make him worry, and those things are so terrifyingly big that he doesn’t even want go near them. Overall, though, the feeling is one of relief. “Did you like it?” he asks.

 

Betty chuckles. “Yes, you big dork.”

 

And even though Jughead is fairly sure he’s in this far too deep, he can’t stop himself from grinning like a loon.


End file.
